


in the woods somewhere

by cedarmoons



Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Creepy Game Mechanics, F/F, Found Family Feels, Night Vale Vibes, POV Lesbian Character, POV Second Person, SDV Playthrough but Gothic, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-14 03:29:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14761752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedarmoons/pseuds/cedarmoons
Summary: “Yep,” Mayor Lewis says, smiling. “It’s nice to finally have a fresh face around these parts. Nobody ever leaves this valley, you know. Nobody.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i've been thinking about a stardew valley gothic fic for a full month. finally i decided to just write it. i don't know if i'll continue it as a fic or just keep it to headcanons; it depends on the response i get for this fic.
> 
> i am also at tumblr @ cedarmoons, if you're interested!

The bus ride to Stardew Valley, Nevada, from Denver takes fifteen hours and costs $249.99. The bus isn’t a Greyhound; it’s run by a company whose name you can’t remember. You had picked it because it allowed animals on board, and it had been cheaper than the Greyhound’s $299.99 fare. Chester is sleeping in his crate, snoring softly, and you are one of five passengers on the bus.

The other passengers are all wearing sunglasses and strange, brand-new earbuds. The other passengers are all utterly unremarkable, and you forget their faces the moment you look away. It makes you wonder if they forget you, too.

The desert seems endless outside, pitch black except for the neon lights of the motels and gas stations you pass. Other than Chester, you’ve brought a guitar you don’t know how to play, your grandmother’s old carpet bag—stuffed with your favorite clothes, ratty T-shirts and shorts, and that one pair of overalls you’d bought to be ironic—and the deed to Rosewood Farm, mailed to you from Stardew Valley after Grandpa’s death and accompanied by a letter written in his own hand. Neither of these things had had a return address, other than _Stardew Valley._

You’ve read all of Grandpa’s other letters, which had first been addressed to Dad, then to both Dad and you; their delivery had slowed as the years passed, until they stopped entirely a few years before his death. But a handful of them had gone in-depth in their descriptions about how green the Valley was.

You wonder, briefly, how someplace in Nevada could ever possibly be green. By day, it’s all beige, all yellow, all orange, all dirt and scrub and mountains. By night it’s all neon, unnatural colors and abandoned gas stations.

Every one of Grandpa’s letters had included an invitation to visit the valley. Every one of Grandpa’s invitations had been crossed out with thick heavy black strokes, until the words had been almost incomprehensible, until you’d had to hold them up under the lights to actually read them.

Your phone buzzes, pausing your podcast, briefly. You glance down, brushing red hair out of your eyes, and read a text from Dad ✨. _How’s the 🚌 trip so far?_ it reads. Dad loves using emojis. He’d discovered them on his own last year and now they’re everywhere in his text messages. It’s adorable.

 _almost there,_ you text back. _just a few more hours i think. eta 830_

Dad texts back:  _😊👍💖_

You lower your phone and look out at the endless desert. It’s 5:10 right now. At the next rest-slash-refuel stop you’ll have to let Chester out to stretch his legs and pee. But right now, you’re halfway across the desert, a thousand miles between you and your old life in Denver, and there’s nothing you can do but resume your podcast, rest your head against the window, and watch the blue-purple horizon.

—

At 7:40, the bus enters a tunnel under the Calico Mountains. Orange lights shine across the empty seats; you are now the only passenger on the bus. You don’t remember when you became the only passenger on the bus, rather than one of five. You don’t remember the bus stopping at any time other than for a refuel an hour ago, when Chester had been allowed to stretch his legs and pee.

You don’t remember if the other passengers had come back after the refuel stop. You sit up, glancing over the top of your bus seat, but you only see cracked brown leather bathed in stripes of orange. So you stand, looking around; all you find in the empty seats are abandoned sunglasses and strange, brand-new earbuds.

Instinct tells you to turn away, return to your seat, not mention this to the bus driver. You are bathed in alternating colors—orange, black, orange, black. You look at the folded pair of sunglasses, wedged between the bus seat’s back and cushion.

“That’s all for you tonight,” Cecil says. Your podcast is still playing. You don’t know how many episodes you’ve listened to. “Good night, Saige. Good night.”

You glance down at your podcast, eyes widening. Cecil has always said _listeners_ , never your name. He’s fictional; there’s no way he knows your name. Is there?

A shiver runs through your whole body. “What the hell?” you whisper. You exit out of your podcast and go to your music app, where you put on a bouncy pop song whose lyrics you can’t recall. Still shaken, you look back up, only to see that the abandoned sunglasses and strange, brand-new earbuds are all gone. You’re the only person on this bus.

You think that maybe you have always been the only person on this bus.

You swallow and turn, sitting back down on your seat. You check inside the crate, heart racing, and Chester smiles up at you, tongue lolling. You smile back and straighten, turning to watch the orange lights go by. You turn up the music volume to drown out the rushing sound of the bus’s tires on the road.

Forty minutes later, the bus emerges from the tunnel to blindingly bright light. You squint, and as your eyes adjust, you are shocked to see so much _green_. It’s like you’re in Ohio again, where you’d lived as a teenager, surrounded by cornfields that were only broken up by farmhouses. You think that maybe the world shouldn’t be so bright, after nearly an hour spent in that tunnel. You feel that the world shouldn’t be so green, here in Nevada. Hadn’t you been surrounded by desert just an hour ago?

Ten minutes later, the bus rolls to a screeching stop. You look out the window. The land is green, misty, like someplace out of Washington or Oregon. The bus stop is the only structure you can see. Straight ahead, the road comes to a dead end. There is only forest around you, and the tunnel behind you.

You look back out your window, and see two people—a man and a woman—waiting by the treeline. You check your phone for the time. It is 8:30 exactly. You try to remember the last time you’d seen a time that hadn’t ended in 0, but can’t. A moment later, you shake your head.

Doesn’t matter. You’ll check again in a minute, and it’ll be 8:31.

You turn away from the bus window, focus on getting your stuff together. The bus driver, wearing sunglasses and strange, brand-new earbuds, helps you carry your stuff out to the bus stop. You let Chester out; he steps out of his crate, tongue lolling. He promptly trots over to a fern and pees on it.

“Good boy,” you say. Behind you, the bus rumbles. You turn and watch as the driver, his features concealed in shadow—you can’t remember his face—carefully turns the bus around and disappears into the darkness of the tunnel. Orange-and-black light seems to swallow it whole. The air smells like forest and diesel gas and exhaust.

When you turn around, the two people who had been standing at the treeline are right in front of you. You startle, catching yourself before exhaling and smiling, extending your hand. “Hi,” you say, shaking the man’s hand. “Mayor Lewis and Robin, right? I got your email.”

You remember, suddenly, the day you’d decided to quit your job as a cubicle monkey and move to Stardew Valley; an hour after you’d made up your mind, you’d gotten an e-mail from Mayor Lewis, asking if you intended to take up ownership of Rosewood Farm. Otherwise, he would like to purchase the farm from you, as Joja Inc. had been looking for new land to build a Joja Warehouse.

It had been… good timing. When you’d responded to him that yes, you did intend to move to Stardew Valley and live on Rosewood Farm, he had told you that he and Robin, the local carpenter, would be there to welcome you.

Strange that you’re just remembering that now.

You shake that thought off. They’re perfectly normal people. You’ve just been listening to your podcasts too much.

“Saige Holland,” Mayor Lewis greets. His palm is slightly too-cold in yours. He’s smiling, you think: the edges of his iron-gray mustache are higher than the rest of it, and his eyes are crinkled in the corners. “It’s good to finally meet you! Your grandfather was one of my closest friends, you know. Why, you’re his spitting image.”

Grandpa had never mentioned Mayor Lewis. Not in his letters to you, not in his letters to Dad. His final letter is in your jacket’s pocket, but you don’t get it out. Instead, you decide to take Lewis’s word for it. You nod and finally manage to pull your hand free from his. Robin takes it immediately, shaking it firmly. Unlike Mayor Lewis, she lets your hand go after an appropriately long handshake.

“It’s been ages since we got anyone new,” Robin says, smiling. “And so young, too! You know, my son Sebastian’s about your age. Eighteen. He’ll be nineteen this winter.”

You are twenty-four. You smile and decide not to tell her this.

“Right. Um, quick question,” you say, as you shrug on your guitar case and take Chester’s crate in one hand, and your carpetbag in another. “Are we—are we still in Nevada?”

Robin and Mayor Lewis exchange a glance and burst into laughter. “Why wouldn’t we be in Nevada?” Robin asks, grinning. You think of fifteen hours’ worth of endless desert and purple-blue skies and stare at her. Robin puts her hands on her hips and inhales, deeply. “We’re just a few hours from Zuzu City!”

You’ve never heard of Zuzu City. But, to be fair, you don’t know any cities in Nevada, other than Las Vegas. You don’t even know its capital. Maybe Zuzu City is Nevada’s capital. You look around the verdant, misty forest that seems straight out of Washington or Oregon, wondering if you had somehow died, or crossed worlds under that tunnel, a world where Nevada was a pine forest state and Washington was all arid desert instead.

You can’t shake the sense of _wrongness_ that has stuck with you since realizing you were the last passenger on the bus.

Lewis’s mustache corners lift, concealing his presumably smiling mouth. “I’ll show you the way to Rosewood Farm. It’s not a long walk—about twenty minutes or so.”

You whistle for Chester to hurry after you, and follow Mayor Lewis into the thicket of trees that frame a dirt path. Robin cheerfully explains her role in town as the local carpenter, responsible for any upgrades or farm buildings you might need, and then takes her leave before the shadows of the trees fall upon you all.

Mayor Lewis wishes her a cheerful goodbye, and you see Robin’s smile change, almost freezing, fixing in place. It is a very strange expression. She turns on her heel and walks away, almost too quickly. Past a certain point on the path, she vanishes. You blink, squinting, wondering if Robin’s disappearance had been a trick of the light, when Mayor Lewis places a hand on your shoulder. “Come on, then,” he says. He’s smiling, though you can’t see his mouth under his mustache.

He steers you back around, guiding you into the thicket of trees whose canopies curve over the path like a natural arch. A cold breeze brushes over you both, but you are the only one who shivers. Mayor Lewis doesn’t even seem to notice. “Now, Rosewood Farm really was something back in your grandpa’s day,” he tells you. “But nowadays it’s pretty much a wilderness. If you ever need help clearing it out, let Alex know—he’s strong, and he helped out your grandpa when he was getting on in years.”

 _Alex_ , you think, trying to remember that name. Mayor Lewis steps over a fallen log and helps you cross it as well, taking the carpet bag from you so you can scoop Chester up, tucking him under your arm as you step over the half-rotted log.

It’s a twenty minute walk to the farm, as Mayor Lewis had promised. The ground is choked with weeds and overgrown grass, fallen trees and stumps wider than you are tall, boulders taller than you and stones that reach your knees.

You can’t imagine how this was ever a farm. You stare out at the wilderness, try to superimpose a cornfield over it, and you fail, utterly. Mayor Lewis keeps walking, chuckling as he tells you to watch your step, and you think you see the shadows shift at his approach. You think you feel eyes upon your back when you pass those same shadows.

Yeah. You’ve definitely been listening to that podcast too much.

The “cabin” is actually a rundown Victorian-looking house. Patches of the roof are missing, and the white paint has turned grey and chipped. Dead trees and bushes flank the wraparound porch, and the windows that face you are cracked, fogged, or boarded up. Dead ivy has grown up the side of the house, nearly swallowing it in a veil of brown and death.

You stare.

Grandpa had only died ten years ago. How had the farmhouse fallen into such disrepair since then? How had the farm vanished?

Mayor Lewis crosses his arms, letting out a soft whistle. He looks at you, sees the dismay that must be naked on your face, and laughs. “Yep,” he says, “it’s seen better days.” He looks back at the house, then the wilderness that surrounds you both. “But this farm was your grandpa’s dream, once. He loved it with all his heart. Just show it some love and it’ll start loving you back, I wager.”

Chester squirms out of your arm; you let him go. Mayor Lewis gazes up at the decrepit farmhouse and thumbs the end of his cap, then looks at you once more. His eyes are warm, kind, though the brim of his cap casts an oddly-shaped shadow over his face.

“Yep,” he says, smiling. “It’s nice to finally have a fresh face around these parts. Nobody ever leaves this valley, you know. Nobody.”

What a weird thing to say.

You stare at him, and his eyes widen. “Oh! Almost forgot.” He laughs to himself, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a large paper. He hands it over and you look down at a packet of parsnip seeds, no bigger than the palm of your hand. “Some parsnips, to help you get started. Consider it a welcome gift from everyone in Stardew Valley.”

He shows you the shipping box—a gift from Robin—explains that he’ll sell whatever’s inside, and dips the brim of his cap toward you once again. Then he takes his leave, whistling cheerfully, leaving you alone in the wilderness that has taken over Rosewood Farm.

You sigh, whistle for Chester, and head inside. There’s a hole in the porch that you almost fall into, but catch yourself at the last moment. You glance over the edge of the hole into the darkness within. A groundhog blinks up at you, then scurries into the shadows under the porch, disappearing from your view.

There shouldn’t be groundhogs in Nevada, you think. There shouldn’t be so much green and mist and life, even if the heat matches the rest of the state. There shouldn’t be _pine trees_ in Nevada.

You straighten and turn back to the front door of your grandfather’s—now your own—house. A piece of paper is stuck on the front of the door, which is just as gray and terrible-looking at the rest of the house. The paper itself is brighter than the paint, and the ink alternates between black and red.

 _ **WARNING!**_ you read. _This property has been winterized. The water has been shut off and antifreeze added to all toilets, sinks, and taps. Electrical appliances DO NOT WORK. Do not attempt to turn on the water or electrical facilities, as that may cause damage to this property. YOU will be responsible for paying for any damages inflicted upon this property post-winterization. Any visit to this property before it is put on the market to be sold is TRESPASSING. Violators WILL be prosecuted._

It is signed _Morris, Joja Customer Service Representative._

You turn around. “Mayor Lewis?” you call. The forest seems to swallow your voice. You walk back to the stairs, mindful of the hole in the porch, and hurry to the place you’d last seen him, Chester at your heels. “ _Mayor Lewis!_ ”

Nothing. There’s nothing, and no one.

You are alone. Perhaps you always have been.

“Shit,” you say, glancing down at Chester. He sits, paw raising briefly before falling back to the ground. From this angle he looks like a loaf of sand-colored bread, and you love him even more. “What now, huh?”

You have a wilderness for a farm, an abandoned house for a new home, and no one except your corgi for company.

Had there been contact info for this Morris on that piece of paper? Maybe you can talk to him, get Joja people to de-winterize this place. You hadn’t known that Joja was into real estate, but you’re not surprised. Before you’d quit your job at HR, Joja had been a grocery chain, a bank, an insurance agency, _and_ an investment firm, just off the top of your head. Diversification and all that, but you hadn’t liked how many pies Joja Inc. had gotten its fingers in. You hadn’t liked how the Joja smile was slowly but surely appearing everywhere—on billboards, on storefronts, on websites.

And you have the deed to this property. No matter how bad it is, Morris shouldn’t have been able to winterize the house without your permission.

Determined now, you go back to the front door, only to see the winterization notice is gone, vanished, as if it had never been there. The door is still gray and chipped and flaking paint, but the brass knob turns, and the door opens. Light falls in a narrow beam across leaf-strewn wooden floors. The whole house seems to groan when you step inside, setting down your guitar case and your carpet bag by the front door.

The air feels… wrong, here. Like it is somehow full of grief and anger. It lies heavy on your skin. You take a step back, stepping onto the porch once more, and the sensation fades. Chester whines, turning in a circle, butt wiggling, looking up at you nervously. You bend down and pet his head before going back inside, ignoring the instant change in atmosphere.

There’s nothing in the foyer except a piano covered in dust and leaves and debris. Its seat is missing, and the wood finish is not great, but all of its keys are intact. You play a few notes of the Für Elise, and each note rings sour through the space.

Incredibly out of tune, then. No Beethoven tonight.

Behind you, Chester whimpers. You turn and see him sitting outside on the porch, long ears pressed flat against his head, looking pleadingly at you. When you come back onto the porch, he stands, front paws treading nervously until you kneel down and rub his ears.

“Is it just me, or is this entire place super freaking weird?” you ask him.

Chester’s tongue lolls out, and he turns his head, licking your palm. You kiss the top of his head and stand up, going back inside and fighting a shudder at the change in atmosphere. With some coaxing, you manage to get Chester to pad over the threshold, though he doesn’t look very happy about it and returns to the porch within five minutes.

“Fine,” you tell him. “Stay there. I’ll let you know when it’s dinner time. Well. Breakfast.”

Technically his dinner had been a few hours ago, back at the rest stop on the bus route. But that doesn’t stop him; his ears perk up at the word “dinner.” A moment later, he starts dancing, paws scrabbling against the wood as he jumps, barking as he looks at you with hopeful excitement. Typical.

“I fed you an hour ago,” you tell him. “No dinner yet, buddy.”

He whines and lays down, transitioning seamlessly into his breadloaf form. He rests his head on his paws, watching you with heartbreaking sadness in his bright eyes. You sigh and shake your head at him, turning back to the mess that is your new house.

It’s time to inspect how much work you have to do.

The fireplace in the living room is choked full of ashes and dust. You find the kitchen, which is easily the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen, even discounting the obvious abandonment. It looks like the 1960s had vomited all over it—peeling pink-and-blue floral wallpaper, walnut counters with gray granite countertops, squat and rounded fridge. The sink runs, at least, and the stove turns on, and the fridge and freezer both work when you open their doors.

There is a lot of water damage in the walls and ceiling, but it’s old, not caused by the winterization of the property—if it had ever been winterized. You don’t know, and no one’s around to ask. There’s a sunroom behind the kitchen, but the windows are mostly missing, and those that aren’t are cracked or fogged.

You have no idea how to fix any of this. You have no idea who to contact to fix water damage, or replace ruined drywall, or even get a cuter kitchen.

There’s a half-bathroom, and another closet-sized space that holds an ancient-looking washing machine. No dryer. “Great,” you mutter, and go back to the foyer, climbing up the rickety steps. With every step, you hold your breath, expecting the wood to collapse under your feet, but the staircase holds, to your surprise.

The second floor is five rooms—a full-sized bathroom, complete with a shower-tub, three empty rooms, and a fourth room, the master bedroom that only has a twin-sized bed in a wire frame and a fireplace. The fireplace is just as bad as the one downstairs. The bed is a mattress and a quilt, no sheets, no decor, nothing. It’s empty.

You cannot think of any reason why there would only be a bed in this room and no other furniture. Why not take the bed, too?

You sit on the bed, bouncing on it, testing its weight. The bed and the floor both hold, which is only minimally reassuring. Chester is downstairs, but you still feel watched. When you turn your head toward the corner, you see a wooden trapdoor on the ceiling, with an attached pull-string, undoubtedly leading to the attic.

You don’t want to go to the attic.

Every survival instinct you have screams at you: _do not go into the attic._

The air feels heavier, angrier, making your lungs feel too-tight in your chest. You decide you won’t go into the attic, and the sudden pressure on your chest lessens, slightly. You glance down, breathing deeply, fighting the shudder of fear that keeps trying to skitter down your spine. Squeezing your eyes shut, you stand and then kneel on the ground, bare knees scraping against old wooden floors as you look underneath and find several long shapes, their details concealed by shadow.

You reach in, and the shadows look like they move around your hand. Gritting your teeth, you grab the first item and pull out an axe. A hoe, a pickaxe, a sickle, and a dented watering can follow it, and after that, a massive worn backpack of leather. None of the tools look like they’re in any shape to be used as actual tools, but it’s the best you’ve got. When you try to put the pickaxe in the backpack, it somehow fits. You put in the rest of the tools, one at a time, and the backpack takes all of them, and when you shut the backpack flap, you get a faint impression of hunger.

“Huh,” you whisper, and pull the parsnip seeds from your pocket. You go outside with the backpack slung over your shoulder, and open the flap. The first thing you pull out is the sickle. You look at the overgrown grass and shrug. It can’t be too hard, right?

It takes you a long time to clear enough grass to plant the parsnip seeds according to the instructions printed on the back of the seed packet—one square foot for each plant. Probably two hours, if you had to guess. You frown and fish your phone from your back pocket, checking the time.

It’s 1:40.

It shouldn’t be 1:40, you think. You just got here. Time shouldn’t be moving so quickly.

You turn your phone off and go back inside to fill your watering can from the tap, then return outside to water your fifteen parsnip plants. When you check your phone again, it’s 2:00. You shake your head, filled with strange unease, and unlock your phone, opening your texting app to Dad.

You type: _dad this place is weird lmao_

Dad replies a few moments later with a _🤔_ and a _?_

You take photos of the house, its interior, and the wilderness. Dad replies with _😲_ , then: _It shouldn’t be that bad. Can you talk to someone to help fix it up?_

You type: _ik its weird. ill see if i can talk to someone. also weird q but what time is it over there?_

The Read receipt of your first text says 2:00, but your phone says the time is currently 2:10. Dad replies with _2:10_ , and a chill sweeps down your back. Time should not be moving this quickly. Stardew Valley should not be so green, in northwestern Nevada. Winterization notifications should not disappear when you are the only one on the property.

You type: _dad i think i’m in a horror movie lol_ , hesitate for a heartbeat, and then hit _send_. The text turns dull blue, and Dad ✨ is replaced with _Sending…_ that blinks over and over. A few moments later, the text jerks to the side, accompanied by a red exclamation mark and the words underneath: _Message failed to deliver. Send as text?_

You send as text. You wait. A few moments later, the green text bubble jerks to the side, accompanied by a red exclamation mark and the words _Failed to send_ underneath the text. It is now 2:20.

You text Dad: _ok just curious_

This message delivers. You try the horror movie text, but it fails to send again, and again, and again. Dad replies with his usual emojis, and the clock on your phone ticks by in increments of ten. You try the horror text one last time, and one last time it fails to send. You stop trying.

You can’t help but feel the “failed to send” was deliberate, somehow. You can’t help but feel you’ve made a terrible mistake, coming here to Stardew Valley.

You think back to Mayor Lewis, his smiling mustache and missing mouth. 

 _Nobody ever leaves this valley,_ he’d said.  _Nobody._


	2. Chapter 2

Somehow, it is 4:00 when you decide to explore the property. You whistle for Chester, and he perks up from his breadloaf position on the porch—the good part of the porch, right next to the massive hole—with an excited bark, scrambling off the stairs and bouncing toward you. “Good boy,” you tell him, bending down to scratch behind his left ear. Guess those months of careful training before the move—to walk him without a leash, to get him to come at your whistle, to heel and to stay—hadn’t been a waste after all. He sploots and you almost go to dig through your carpet bag, just to find those treats jammed at the bottom. “What a _good boy_. I love you so much, you little breadloaf. Now, Chester, come.”

He trots along beside you as you turn toward the copse of trees and head in. The grass is almost waist-high, here. You’re grateful you’d decided to wear jeans instead of shorts—you don’t even want to think about what kinds of bugs are living in here.

You’d given Chester his anti-tick stuff, right? Shit. Maybe not. Anti-flea wasn’t the same thing as anti-tick. Did anti-tick stuff even exist for dogs?

You bend down to pick up your canine breadloaf in question and climb over another fallen log, which is soft and half-rotted and warm and, despite the spring, smells like decomposing autumn leaves. It reminds you of Ohio, on days that Ohio had actually decided to have autumn weather rather than a second summer.

Once you have both your feet on the ground, you set Chester down and promise him dinner after your little exploration. Chester’s eyes flick to the shadows that stretch over the wilderness grass, but his ears stay upright, his tongue still lolling out of his mouth, so you decide you aren’t worried… too much.

You still have an inexplicable urge to return back to the creepy abandoned farmhouse before dark, though. It’s the same feeling that had told you not to go into the attic, that had told you to tell Dad you felt like you were starring in a horror movie.

As the sky darkens—it’s still March, no extra hour of sunlight yet—you take your phone out and turn on the flashlight, using it to pick your way through the wilderness. About that time, you remember you should probably be looking for landmarks, so you’re not just wandering around aimlessly for hours. But as you look around, you realize everything looks the same: every stone, every boulder, every tree, every _fallen_ tree. There are no weird hollowed-out trees, no rocks defaced with graffiti, no oddly-colored patches of grass.  

You find a lake, though, so that’s… something. Had Grandpa ever mentioned a lake being on Rosewood? You can’t remember. Again, you have a feeling that this place—the valley, this lake, this fertile, green land—should not exist in northwestern Nevada. It’s a creepy feeling, as creepy as the sensation of shadows following your footsteps.

The lake is about a hundred feet wide, and the water looks black in the fading light. It doesn’t reflect anything when you shine your phone’s flashlight toward it, but neither does it let any light in, so you can’t see underneath the surface of the water. It’s like a black hole in the ground.

The hairs on the back of your neck rise, and you look back toward the trees, whose shadows are stretching out toward you, creeping further and further along the ground, corresponding with the sunset.

You _know_ you’re the only one in these woods, but you still feel watched.

Chester’s ears flatten against his head and he paws at the ground, whining. You nod to yourself and straighten, taking several steps back from the pebbled shore of the lake on your property. You still have time to kill, and you want to get as far away from those trees as possible, so you decide to keep going, heading further into the wilderness.

At some point, you reach a cliffside, too high and too steep to climb. You step back, craning your head, but can’t see the top. Odd. With one hand on the cliff wall, you whistle for Chester to follow you and walk. It takes you straight back, where you see a niche overgrown with weeds and bushes, a strange contrast from the orange-brown of the cliffs. But there is something underneath all the greenery. You furrow your brow and step forward, reaching out and lifting one of the bushes.

A massive stone plaque—that’s really the only word you can think of, looking at this—is embedded in the cliff wall. It’s almost as tall as you, and has four small, round protrusions. Each of these four protrusions are underneath banners and names carved into the stone, though the stone is so grimy, covered in moss and dead leaves and vines, you can’t make out a single name.

Curiosity wins out. You fight down your disgust and reach out, brushing away the debris above one of the protrusions. Letters begin to take form, and, encouraged, you keep going, until the full name is revealed and you shine your phone light on it.

 _Richard Holland_ is carved into the stone, above the protrusion.

That’s… that’s Dad’s name.

Dad has never been to Stardew Valley.

Grandma and Grandpa divorced back when he was a toddler, so he doesn’t even have any memories of Grandpa—doesn’t have anything, really, except the letters Grandpa had sometimes sent him. Panicked, now, you reach out and brush the debris out of another name, then another, and another, until all four are revealed.

_William Holland. Mary Holland. Deborah Holland. Richard Holland._

You don’t know any of these names. Grandma’s name was Dorothy, and Grandpa’s name was Edwin; Dad had been an only child, same as you. Despite this knowledge, the sight of these three strangers’ names makes your skin crawl. Who are—were?—they? Why is Dad’s name among them?   

Behind you, a mourning dove coos. You turn around, but see nothing, and realize the sun has gone down. Chester’s ears flatten against his head and he growls, snapping and barking at shadows. You hush him but he keeps barking, lips pulling back to reveal sharp teeth. You scoop him up into your arms, holding him tight to your chest, preventing him from twisting his way out of your arms.

“What’s gotten into you?” you ask. Chester growls, a sound you have _never_ heard from him, and you look up to see where he’s looking. The shadows shift, and something in the trees—moves. It’s dark. Dark as the shadows of the trees. Dark as the shadows that had seemed to move at your approach earlier in the day.

You watch as _something_ somehow peels itself from the darkness. It rises up to stand on two unsteady legs, but you see no arms, and its eyes only look like two pinpricks of white. It looms ahead of you, and you see its mouth—a hole that is somehow darker than the rest of its body—opening, gaping, revealing an empty, massive maw.

You look at it and you get a strange sense of hunger. But you’re not the one that’s hungry.

The thing lurches forward, shambling toward you.

“ _Shit!_ ”

You bolt. The thing moans, stumbling after you, and Chester howls. A bat swoops from the sky and you shriek, ducking down, barely missing getting scratched by its claws. But your ducking makes you stumble and trip, twisting around to land on your back so you don’t crush Chester. He squirms out of your arms, still barking, nosing at your cheek as you swear every curse word and every combination of curse words you can think of.

“Chester, heel!” you call, and Chester obediently stays by your side as you rush through the woods, batting low-hanging branches out of the way and narrowly avoiding tripping on overgrown or exposed roots several times.

When you finally see the farmhouse, another shadow thing is waiting for you, blocking the path. You swear again and pick up Chester, groaning as you hoist him into your arms again—he is so _fat_ , Jesus, you need to put him on a diet—and sprint around it. It reaches for you, but slowly, slowly enough that you can dodge it and keep going.

 _What the hell,_ you think, mind racing, veins full of adrenaline.  _What the hell?_

Grandpa’s letter hadn’t mentioned _this_.

The moment you reach the farmhouse—a formless black shape in the shadows, darker than the rest of the night—you leap onto the porch, stumbling but managing by a hair not to fall into the giant hole. You fumble open the door, Chester half-draped over your shoulder and still barking, and lock it shut behind you.

You set Chester down, heart hammering, and lean against the door. Chester runs to the nearest window, which happens to be right next to the front door, and starts barking.

You check your phone, hands shaking so badly you almost drop it. It’s somehow 10:00 at night, on the dot. Which is impossible. There’s no way you spent six hours outside. You haven’t even fed Chester since your arrival in the Valley. If he’d gone that long without dinner he’d be flopping around the house, looking at you with sad, pleading eyes. If he thought you were starving him, even if you’d only fed him a couple of hours ago, he’d be howling.

Chester flops, right on cue. He watches you with sad, pleading eyes, eyebrows quirking in supplication. You check your phone again. 10:10. There are still eyes in the shadows that watch you in the windows. You wish you had curtains, but you don’t. The house is bare and empty except a few random pieces of furniture.

“Okay,” you say, voice shaking. “Okay, Chester, I’m gonna feed you dinner and then get a ticket for the next bus. Maybe an overnight bus. We are getting the _hell_ out of this place. I just gotta…” You sigh and curse, running a hand through your snarled hair. Are there even outlets in this old house? Is there even Internet?

There are outlets, though no Internet, which means you’ve been using the data on your phone this entire time. _Shit_. The bills are still sent to Dad’s place, you think, but—per your request—he’s keeping tallies of how much you owe him. You hope. Dad’s the type to agree to something and then “forget” about it later, especially if it involves finances. He’s always preferred to provide for people, and after the shit Mom pulled—

God, don’t think about Mom.

You thunk your head against the wall, then go to root around in your carpet bag, which is massive and heavy. You find the last dregs of Chester’s dog food and go to Chester’s crate, pulling out his food and water bowls. You fill his food bowl and go to fill his water bowl, returning to see Chester’s already feasting, now unconcerned about the shadow-people-things that are still undoubtedly outside. There isn’t much food left in his bag—you’ll have to buy more food tomorrow. Before the bus back to Denver.

Hopefully your old roommates haven’t found someone to replace you yet. Hopefully you can slink back and they’ll let you in. Hopefully you can go back to Joja and they’ll let you have your old job at HR back. You think of the guy in the cowboy hat who’d sat behind you, smacking his lips every five minutes as he finished his reports with mechanical precision, and shudder. You think of your manager, who despite boasting about Joja’s full-time employee benefits had never given you more than 39.5 hours a week, and frown.

No, not Joja. Never again. You lived in Denver—surely someone needs an HR specialist, somewhere. You’re pretty good at compensation stuff. Companies always need a compensation specialist because no one ever wants to specialize in it because it goddamn sucks. Too many regs, too many private companies doing illegal stuff. But it’s supposed to pay well.

If they bother to give you proper hours and benefits.  _Crap._

You hang your head in your hands and just breathe, fighting tears. You don’t know what those things had been—you don’t know why they’d only appeared in the night. It makes you think of the morning, when you’d felt the forest’s eyes on you, and you shudder.

Your phone’s battery is 21%. You find its plug in the carpet bag and plug it in. As you wait for it to charge, you check every window on the house, making sure all of them are locked, making sure the door is locked, because you don’t really have anything to bar it with.

White eyes watch you from the darkness outside. You wish you had curtains to close, so you wouldn’t have to look at them. Though, on second thought, the curtains wouldn’t keep you from knowing that they’re still out there, waiting. But that just makes it _worse._

You swallow hard and return to the foyer, where Chester is in his breadloaf form and your phone is still charging.

You sit down, slumping against the wall, and pull up Dad’s name, calling him. It’s late and he has work in the morning, but God, you need to hear his voice. You need to know you’re not somehow in some weird parallel world full of imaginary monsters. You need to know this is _real._

Dad picks up on the second ring. “Hi, kiddo,” he says, and you choke back a sob, covering your mouth with your hand. You hadn’t thought it would be this good to hear his voice, but—God. You’re not alone. You’re not trapped here.

“Hi, Dad,” you whisper back, once you trust yourself to speak. “Were you sleeping? I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it’s fine. What do you need? How was your first day?”

“Really—” you’re about to say _weird_ ; you’re about to say, _Dad, I want to get out._ But your throat closes up, and you can’t say the words. You physically _can’t_. It makes you think of your text messages, how some had gotten through and others—others about wanting to leave, or about how weird this place was—hadn’t.

“Saige? Did you hear me?”

“Yeah,” you choke out. “Yeah, I did, Dad. It’s… it’s okay. I don’t think I want to—” _stay here_ , you try to say, but your mouth doesn’t cooperate. You clear your throat, panic rising, and look to the window. One of the shadow monster things has its face pressed against the glass, watching you. Had you locked that window?

Yes, you recall. You’d checked at least three times. It’s locked. That knowledge doesn’t help you breathe any easier, though. You twist around, facing the staircase. “Dad, Grandpa’s house doesn’t have Internet. Could you buy me a return ticket to Denver?”

“Right now?”

“Yes. Please.”

You listen to the sound of sheets rustling on the other side and close your eyes. You can’t tell him how terrified you are right now. You can’t tell him that you wish you’d never stepped foot in Stardew Valley.

Dad sighs as he sits down and starts up his computer. “Not working out then, huh?” he says. “I’m sorry, kiddo. What happened?”

“It’s just—” you stop, think. “I don’t think this is the right place for me.”

“Aw, I’m sorry,” he says again. “Sometimes things just don’t work out. But I want you to know, I’m proud of you for putting yourself out there.”

You swallow hard. “Thanks, Dad. Please tell me you’re not using Internet Explorer.”

“Internet Explorer is perfectly fine—”

“Oh my god, Dad, use Chrome or Firefox or _anything else,_ please, I am _begging you_.”

Dad sighs, but you hear the smile in it. “Tough crowd,” he mutters. “Back in my day we had to do a rain dance in the woods every day at midnight if we wanted a good internet connection. Now you youngins just boot up Chrome or Firefox and wait two seconds, and boom.”

You half-smile and listen to him type, click, and type some more. After a while, Dad says, “Huh.”

It’s the same _huh_ he uses when he’s worried or concerned or surprised in the worst way, and doesn’t want you to know that he’s worried or concerned or surprised in the worst way. It’s a _huh_ that has never, ever meant anything good.

You start chewing on your fingernail, a nervous habit you’ve never been able to break. “What? What is it?”

“There aren’t any bus routes to Stardew Valley,” he replies. You feel your stomach plummet, and alarm rush through you. “Maybe it’s the Greyhound, but… let me check.” More clicking. You gesture to Chester and he toddles over, climbing into your lap. You put Dad on speaker so you can pet Chester and chew off all your fingernails simultaneously.

Chester lets you pet him as you listen to Dad mess around on his computer, the hairs on the back of your neck rising. You don’t want to turn around—you don’t want to see what might be watching you from the windows. You bite down hard, wincing when your thumbnail _clacks_ as it gives way under your teeth. A moment later you lower your arm and shift around, sitting on both of your hands.

“Saige?” Dad says. He sounds worried, now. You make a sound to indicate you’re still listening. “Stardew Valley isn’t… huh.”

Oh, God. Two ‘huhs’ in five minutes. That’s never happened before. You can’t imagine it means anything good. You start chewing on another fingernail, randomly selected for sacrifice to the anxiety gods. “Talk to me, Dad,” you say.

“I just googled Stardew Valley, and got no results. It’s like it doesn’t exist. ‘Stardew Valley Nevada’ doesn’t have any results either.”

“ _What?_ ”

That’s impossible. You’d been able to google it, after you… after you decided to move to Rosewood, and Pelican Town by extension. But it’s still _impossible_. “Try Pelican Town,” you urge.

More clicking, more typing. “Nothing,” Dad says.

It’s as impossible, you think, as a pocket of paradise in northwestern Nevada; as impossible as monsters made from nothing but shadows; as impossible as a winterization notice disappearing after you’d turned your back on it.

 _Nobody leaves the valley_ , Mayor Lewis had said. He’d smiled as he’d said it.

“Oh my God,” you whisper.

“What was the name of the bus company that got you there?”

“I don’t remember! It wasn’t Greyhound. It was cheaper.” Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Maybe the bus stop where you’d been dropped off would sell tickets? You could check tomorrow. If the creatures outside didn’t break into the house by then. You resist looking over your shoulder, checking if the things are still there.

Somehow, you just _know_ that they are there, pressed up against the window, watching you. Somehow, you just know they’ll be there all night.

“Maybe Google’s not working,” he says. You’re almost certain the problem isn’t with Google. He keeps talking. “I can try again in the morning.”

“No, you have work in the morning. It’s fine. There’s a bus stop near the farm—I’ll buy a ticket there.”

“Are you sure?” Dad sounds skeptical. You hum in agreement and he sighs in the phone. “All right. Let me know if it works out. Will you come home or will you go back to Denver?”

“My plan was Denver. I think Ohio’s a bit out of my budget for a Greyhound.”

“Saige,” Dad says, and you can _hear_ the exhaustion in his voice. You touch your phone, checking the time, and 10:50 blinks back at you, set against a background of Valkyrie from _Thor: Ragnarok_. Your phone screen hadn’t been big enough to fit the fireworks going off behind her, to your bitter disappointment.

“—not important,” Dad’s saying. You start gnawing on another fingernail. “Okay? Don’t worry about the money. You have my credit card info, you can use it.”

You think back to nights of Dad sitting at the kitchen table, hunched over credit card statements and bills. Mom screaming about Grandma and then leaving for the night to go to the bar— _don’t think about Mom_. You close your eyes and start to massage your forehead. “Okay,” you say. “Okay. But don’t think I won’t keep the receipt, because I will.”

Your phone goes dark. _Clack_ goes your middle fingernail. When you turn your phone on again, it’s 11:00. You take the nail out of your mouth and wipe your hand on your jeans. “Dad, I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you so late.”

“It’s okay, kiddo. I’m sorry the farm didn’t work out. I love you.”

“I love you too,” you whisper, and Dad hangs up. You’re left alone in this old, empty, near-abandoned farmhouse, and a glance outside reveals one of the shadow things standing in front of your window, watching you. You shudder and lower your head, resting your cheek on Chester’s back, enjoying the feel of his soft fur on your skin.

Your phone buzzes. Dad’s sent you 😘 and nothing else. You return it and click off your phone.

“Okay, boy,” you whisper. “Let’s go to bed.”

The shadow things have been there for an hour, probably more, now. They probably would’ve found a way in if there was one. So that means you’re safe for the night, at least. You grunt as you stand up, dusting off your jeans. Chester paws at the ground and looks up at you, utterly heedless of the shadows that watch you both from the windows. “Heel,” you tell him, and he follows you up the stairs, into your near-empty bedroom.

He isn’t big enough to jump onto the bed, so you pick him up and deposit him atop the duvet. He circles once before laying down on his side, facing you. You reach out and rub the top of his head, then remember you’d left your carpet bag downstairs. You turn on all the lights to go back downstairs, grab it, and turn off the lights again.

The shadows seem oppressive, somehow. You sprint up the stairs and don’t look back, heart racing. You don’t let yourself breathe properly until the bedroom door is locked behind you, the room is fully lit, and your back is against the door.

From the bed, Chester boofs, your term for his soft noise that’s somewhere between a woof and a bark. His ears turn, flattening briefly. You two look at each other for several moments, and he boofs again.

“We are getting the hell out of here tomorrow,” you tell him.

“ _Boof_ ,” Chester replies, ears turning toward you. He rests his head on his crossed paws.

You sigh and start getting ready for bed. After you’ve put in your retainers and taken out your contacts, you change into pajamas, slipping under the thin covers. It’s still early spring, which means it’s cold in this unheated house, so you’re wearing long pajama pants decorated with snowflakes and dancing snowmen. Chester snuffles and gets comfortable as you draw the quilt and the blankets around your neck, fighting back a shiver.

Curiosity makes you lift your head and look toward the window.

There’s nothing out there—at least, nothing looking in, nothing _watching_. Whatever those things are downstairs, they’re limited to the ground, which is good. It will be less good tomorrow morning when you have to get to the bus stop, but that’s something you can deal with tomorrow.

Chester falls asleep before you do. His snores are soft contrasts to the wind against the house. Usually, his snores are enough to soothe you to sleep, but tonight—despite your own mental self-assurances, _the door’s locked, the windows are locked, they’re outside, they can’t get in_ —it takes a long, long time before you finally fall asleep.

* * *

 

A rooster’s crow wakes you up. You squint at the sunlight that’s inexplicably lighting up your entire bedroom, rubbing your eyes, sitting up. Chester is still sleeping, but he stirs when you move. He boofs, and you rub his head before stumbling out of the bed.

When your feet hit the floor, you remember the shadow things, and you stiffen.

You run downstairs, checking the windows, but there’s nothing outside but forest. After double- and triple-checking all of the windows, you open the door, slowly, glancing outside, prepared to slam the door shut just in case another shadow monster is lying in wait.

In the light of day, there’s nothing out there but the woods.

You’re alone on the farm, again.

You exhale and hear Chester’s collar jangling as he runs down the stairs. You let him out, making a mental note to get a doggy door installed, and check your phone. Fully charged, you have a few texts from your friends back in Denver, and a Twitter alert about a new follower, but nothing else. You open your Notes and make a note to get a doggy door installed for Chester.

And then you remember the bus stop, and Stardew Valley not showing up on Google, and the bus service being unavailable online. “Right,” you whisper to yourself. “Shit’s weird. Getting the hell out of here. _Right_.”

You go back upstairs to get dressed, pulling on some shorts and your favorite T-shirt, a plain white tee with an altered version of _Napoleon Crossing the Alps_ printed across the chest. “RIDE OR DIE” is emblazoned above the painting, and a sunglasses-wearing Napoleon is lifting a red plastic cup instead of pointing at the Alps. A keg’s strapped to his back, underneath his majestic red cape.

It’s hilarious. Really, it is.

You also grab your wallet and step back outside, whistling for Chester. He runs out from the underbrush, zooming around you before you call him to heel. He obeys, sitting at your feet and smiling up at you, tongue lolling. You don’t have any treats, so you pet him between the ears and nod toward the opposite end of the farm—where you _think_ Mayor Lewis came through when he showed you Rosewood for the first time.

“Okay, buddy,” you tell him. “I’m buying a ticket straight back to Denver.”

Chester barks, getting to his feet, trotting along as you walk toward the bus stop.

It takes you half an hour to find it, but you blame the extra ten minutes on getting lost, because Rosewood is a _really big farm_ , apparently. After several fruitless minutes of searching, you finally see the clearing where Robin and Mayor Lewis had welcomed you yesterday.

A broken-down bus is in the middle of the road. It’s not just broken-down—it’s ruined, taken over by nature. You curse, drawing closer, and realize there is no chance of this thing ever running again. The tire wheels are rusted, the glass in the sliding door is missing, and several windows are broken. You manage to open the door, only to see grass is somehow growing on the steps. The steering wheel is gone. You climb up the steps to see the grass has grown all the way down the aisle to the back of the bus, and the leather seats are broken, stuffing spilling out of cracks.

You take out your phone, but you don’t have a signal. You leave the bus and go to the kiosk that’s supposed to be selling tickets, which is also overgrown with moss. The screen is black until you tap it, and you wince when you hear a high-pitched buzzing as the screen flickers.

It only displays one sentence.

_Bus service out of order._

The screen goes black, and the high-pitched, electronic whine cuts off. You exhale, heart hammering, and look at Chester, who pants and smiles at you. “We’re in a horror movie, Chester,” you tell him. You cross your arms and look back at the kiosk, taking a deep breath, fighting down your panic. You leave the kiosk, walking out into the middle of the road.

The tunnel you’d taken _yesterday_ is now walled up. Some of the bricks are mossy, so it’s not like Pelican Town—which, now that you think of it, is more than likely some kind of cult—had done it overnight while you were sleeping and shadow monsters were standing outside your house.

It looks old, like it’s always been here.

You wonder, briefly, if _you_ have always been here—but then you shake that thought away.

Your name is Saige Holland. You arrived in Stardew Valley yesterday, and now you’re stuck here. You’re _trapped_ here.

“Definitely a horror movie,” you mutter, walking back to Chester, who is waiting for you patiently. He tilts his head at you, but you shake your head. You _will not_ panic about this, not yet. People who panic in horror movies get killed. Once you’re safely locked away in your new bedroom, well, then you’ll let yourself panic. But for now—“If we can’t get out, we’re going to be the last ones standing, I promise. I know my tropes. No going out alone at night, no separating, no hiding underneath chainsaws.”

You stop at the broken-down fence that separates the… bus lot, or whatever it is, from the path that leads back to Rosewood, and you notice three markers, like the old-timey signs that give people directions.

 _Rosewood Farm_ is carved into one sign, _Bus Stop_ on another, and _Pelican Town_ on the third. Pelican Town’s sign points toward the path you haven’t taken yet—the path Robin had taken yesterday, where she’d seemed to disappear.

You look back down at Chester, who smiles at you. You check your phone. 12:20.

It’s not like you have anything else to do.

“Okay,” you tell him. “Let’s go meet the cult.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next up: you meet your government-mandated love of your life. her name's haley, and she hates your favorite shirt. that's rough, buddy.


End file.
